


Confines

by TrekFaerie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Caning, Emetophobia, M/M, Miscarriage, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Slow Burn, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 15,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFaerie/pseuds/TrekFaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Will agrees, and things go from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Where is he, Will?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where. Is. He.”

He hadn’t thought the smell of dog could get worse. It permeated everything, soaked down deep into every surface, like cigarettes but even worse. As he pushed the thick coats out of his face to breathe, he wondered if Will Graham owned a single article of clothing that wasn’t covered in dog hair. Probably not. It was better to think about that than what was happening just on the other side of the door.

Chilton had been unceremoniously shoved into a coat closet when they’d heard Jack Crawford’s car in the driveway, cutting their conversation short. Well, it hadn’t been a real conversation; more Chilton throwing his dignity into the wind and begging a former patient to hide him from the FBI. Who would’ve guessed he would be so convincing?

“He left the car here and ran off when I refused to help him.” It sounded reasonable enough, to him. Why would Will Graham want to help _him_ , of all people? He couldn’t see Jack’s face through the thin crack in the door frame, but he could see his hands, tightened into fists, inching towards the gun in its holster. It was all too easy to imagine those hands around his neck, the barrel against his temple…

God. He’d screwed up. He’d screwed up so badly.

Time inched by slowly, but it couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes for Will to successfully convince Jack that he was long gone, and five more minutes before the man actually left and Chilton could start breathing again. When Will opened the closet door, his face was surprisingly impassive, just a slight crease of frustration at the corners of his eyes. Chilton felt about three feet tall.

The dogs swarmed him when he stepped out, clearly more excited about the company than their owner. Chilton sat primly on the edge of the couch—also covered in dog hair, of course—and tried his best to keep the dogs at bay while also keeping an eye on Will, who was pacing throughout the living room, mumbling under his breath and running his hands through his hair.

“I’m harboring a fugitive from justice.” His voice was cracked, the sort of strange half-amusement, half-misery tone he always seemed to have when reality just seemed too strange to bear. (He’d heard it often, in the hospital…) “That’s a mandatory prison sentence, at least. If not an accessory to murder.”

“It’s just until Hannibal’s caught,” he said, voice terse even to his own ears. “Only until then. It’s not as if he can get away with it forever.”

For the first time since he arrived, Will met his eyes. His expression said: _Of course he can_.

His voice said, “There’s a room upstairs. It’s a guest room… Though, this is the first time I’ve ever had guests.” It seemed to amuse him further, the slight edge of misery gone for a brief moment. “I usually just stay down here, with the dogs. You’re, ah… Welcome to it.”

He considered thanking him. For saving his life.

Instead, he went upstairs, and slept for about two days.


	2. Chapter 2

Chilton had never owned any pets. His mother had never approved, and in his adult life he’d found himself too busy to care for anyone but himself. He’d never considered it a deficit of character (though he was sure Will Graham would disagree) to not enjoy the company of animals.

It felt like (and was, quite literally) the least he could do, taking care of Will’s dogs while he went off and solved cases for the FBI. ‘How hard can dogs be?’ he’d thought to himself. ‘Certainly easier than hospital inmates.’

It took him about five minutes to realize how completely, utterly, and totally wrong he was.

It was at the ten minute mark, when all the dogs but the smallest were MIA, and even that one refused to come out from under the chair, that he started to miss the insane asylum. At least he could understand _them_.

Animals could sense when you didn’t like them, he’d learned early on his in life. Horses tensed and refused to let him ride them. Cats hissed when he went near them. Even the most genial of dogs just couldn’t stand being around him, confusing their owners, making them say, “Wow, he’s never like this around _anyone_ else!”

“Will you please come out from under there?”

At twenty minutes, he’d started talking to the dog. It merely cocked his head at him and stayed put, and their staring contest continues. Every once in a while, he heard a light pattering of feet, but when he raced to find the source, the dogs were all back wherever they were hiding from him, and he was back to pleading with the little dog.

“Look. I brought you a treat, see?” It took him about two hours to reach the point of bribery, putting a trail of small biscuits just outside the dog’s reach. How long could dogs go without food, or water? Surely at least one of them needed to go outside. (If they weren’t taking care of such things in his clothes…) He couldn’t fathom what would happen if Graham happened to be on one of his multi-day trips—

“His name is Buster.”

Chilton gracefully slammed the back of his head into the underside of the chair. He was checking for any open wounds when the little dog—Buster, he supposed—bolted out from under the chair and joined the rest of its canine brethren in welcoming their master home.

“You’re back early,” he said stiffly, trying to stand slowly as his mind still reeled from the impact.

Will shrugged. “Forgot my wallet.” He held said wallet up as evidence. “Are you…”

“Your dogs don’t like me.” He was a bit disappointed by his own tone; even he thought he sounded a bit whiny.

“They’re good judges of character.”

_Ouch_. There were times when Chilton thought he’d be better off with the damn FBI.

Will left once again, and Chilton spent the rest of the day upstairs, doing productive things and certainly not sulking. A few FBI technicians came at some point, to take his car away and search the nearby woods for evidence, and he watched them from the corner of the window. He thought he was alone, until he felt something cold and wet press against his hand.

He glanced down. “Hello, Buster,” he said. He already felt stupid for talking to a dog, but it wagged its stubby little tail, which he was pretty sure was positive. He tentatively reached out and scratched it behind the ear—that’s what you did with dogs, right?—and sighed. “You made me look like an idiot today, mutt. I’m not just going to forget about that.”

Buster licked his hand.

“That’s disgusting…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with pet fics it's always like oh they just get right into the swing of things, but look at chilton's house. he doesn't have pets.
> 
> this is based off the real estate agent who sold our last house. my shih tzu growled at him.
> 
> p.s. also legit i picked out this dog for the fic before tonight's episode? so it's like thanks for naming him i guess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed tenses. because. my artpop could mean anything.

He’s never known such a quiet place as Wolf Trap, Virginia. The silence is almost unbearable. There are only a handful of beings in the entire world that knew he wasn’t laying low in some foreign country without extradition treaties, and most of them were dogs. And Will Graham.

And only the dogs respond to him.

At some point, Will Graham had stopped talking to him. He wasn’t sure why, though he could guess—most likely, it’s because Will can barely stand him, and not talking means less of a chance that he’ll snap and show the reason why Hannibal Lecter thinks he’s so damn interesting. While Chilton certainly appreciates being alive slightly more than he appreciates good conversation, it can get a bit, well…

Lonely, he supposes. It’s not like he ever had a very vibrant social life, but at least his position in society made it so people were at the very, very least forced into speaking with him. It’s been a week, and his only friend is Buster.

Buster is a dog.

And not a particularly smart dog, either. At least, he doesn’t seem to be. If all dogs but one give him as wide a berth as their owner, it’s pretty clear who’s in the wrong. But, he seems somewhat intuitive, always moving to his uninjured side whenever they sit together. He’s not sure when he began thinking of the animal as a “he,” instead of an “it,” but it seems almost second nature, now.

It’s through Buster that Chilton gets his sole human interaction. He can only assume that Will isn’t overly pleased by Buster becoming fond of him, the little traitor; during the few days he actually spends living in his own home, he’s always moving Buster away, either calling or beckoning him over, always with a mumbled little excuse. At one point, he just starts grabbing the dog and carrying him away.

That’s what starts it.

“You can’t ignore me forever!”

It’s so goddamn silent. It rings in his ears until it threatens to burst. “By your own actions, I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “You can’t just look away. You can’t just not talk to me. I’m not one of your dogs. I’m _here_.”

Will is holding the dog tightly to his chest, and even as he speaks, his eyes are focused squarely on the wall, as if it were easier to bear than Chilton’s face. “Every time I look at you, I’m back in that cage, in that hospital.” His voice is thin and shuddery from the effort of containing his obvious rage. “Every time I hear your voice, I’m reminded of everything that’s been taken from me, and everything that’s yet to be taken. _You_ … It makes me sick to look at you.”

“Then why did you say yes?”

The silence hangs between them.

“You didn’t have to. You could have let Jack arrest me. But, you didn’t. You shoved me into that closet and you lied. You lied to protect me. Why the hell would you do that if you hate me so much?”

“… I’m.” His voice breaks. It takes him a moment to put it back together again. “I’m sick of watching people die. At least, if you’re here… I can’t bring any of them back. But, I could stop him from destroying you. At least.”

He doesn’t need to say whom he’s talking about. It can’t be anyone else. “You’re so sure he would kill me,” he says, “instead of just letting me rot in my own prison.”

“Do you think he would be content to just let you stay there? No, he can’t… He can’t have doubt. You make them doubt.” He swallows thickly. “Your death would give him more time. And that’s all he needs.”

At some point, Will had put Buster down. Left to his own devices, the little dog trundles over to Chilton, sitting down at his side.

“He likes you,” Will says, his voice almost a whisper.

“Apparently. I can’t imagine why.”

“There must be some reason. Whatever it is.”

After that, Will still doesn’t look at him. But, every once in a while, he’ll forget himself and say a few words in his direction. Chilton drinks them like wine.


	4. Chapter 4

When Hannibal Lecter’s car pulls up in Will’s driveway, Chilton stops breathing.

He’s still not breathing when Will grabs him by the arm— _ow_ —and shoves him bodily into the closet once again, but at that point it’s less because of fear and more because Will apparently lets his dogs wear his damn coats. The knock on the door puts the fear of—well, not God, but something—back into him, and he wraps himself in those coats, trying to smother his own scent in them. Like it would help at all.

“Dr. Lecter. I wasn’t expecting company.”

He doesn’t hear Lecter’s reply so much as he feels it, cold ice running through his veins as his heart skips, and he can practically feel his remaining kidney as if it were already between Lecter’s teeth. He closes his eyes tight, focusing on the rhythm of their feet across creaking floorboards, the scratch of thick coats against his skin; mentally repeating soothing rhymes his abuela would croon over his cradle, anything to distract from the monster outside the closet.

He opens his eyes once again, and meets Hannibal’s through the crack in the door.

Not really, he tells himself as he bites his hand hard enough to bleed, not really. Lecter’s outside the closet, yes, but his eyes aren’t focused on it—they’re focused on Will, as always, as they have some sort of philosophical discussion Chilton’s not even sure he can recognize as English at this point.

The discussion stops short, and he watches as Lecter pauses, head cocked to the side in that way he has, and though he still doesn’t look his way, he can feel his stomach dropping with every second of silence.

And then he inhales. Deeply.

_The nose_. Of course, the nose. Even with the coats it had to be undeniably him hiding in there, and if Hannibal Lecter could recognize the scent of cancer, he could catch the scent of a sad little man half-frightened to tears, and he curses himself for the blood that pools on his hand. Like blood in the water.

“… Well, Will. I do hope you’ll make your next appointment.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Doctor.”

He doesn’t move, not even when the front door opens and shuts, not even when he hears the sound of a car driving away, not even when Will Graham opens the closet door and stares at him, face pale as if he can feel himself as the one in the closet.

“… You’re bleeding,” he says, simply and plainly, as if surprised to see it there. “You’re, um… Dr. Chilton?”

He falls to his knees. It hurts to do so, but he does. It hurts even more when he curls in on himself and lets out what can only be described as an anguished cry, as if trying to push out all the silence, all the fear. He doesn’t even recognize what Will is trying to do, doesn’t even see the box in front of him as one filled with store brand Band-Aids until he’s putting one on himself. It’s so hard to see with the world so damn blurry.

He must be allergic to dog hair after all.

(He feels a tentative hand on his shoulder, but it’s gone, quickly, and he doesn’t see Will Graham for the rest of the day.)


	5. Chapter 5

Really. He can be civil.

Social interaction has never been Will Graham’s forte—it’s kind of why he lives his life alone, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dogs. Dogs aren’t complicated, the way humans are. They aren't cruel; they don't have hidden agendas. They don't put prices on their love. They don’t revel in your misery and push and prod at your mind since it’s already been opened up so neatly for them—

He’ll admit. He’s still resentful. Who wouldn’t be? If he thinks about it, there’s probably a reason why Chilton’s always in these precarious positions. He thinks, even now, about him holding his own internal organs…

It helps him get through the day. A little.

But… He also understands how crushing the silence can be. There’s a reason why Chilton’s taken to carrying Buster around like a small purse, carrying on in-depth conversations about philosophy—even a wagging tail can be salve for a lonely man. He knows that better than anyone.

He can be civil.

Chilton stares out the upstairs windows most days, watching out for unexpected visitors, watching the tire tracks—the only traces of his car left—disappear with the melting winter snow. Buster stays near him, always; he’s an intuitive little guy, a bit high-strung and daring. Like attracts like, no matter what they all say. And Will’s just… Not like.

“I made coffee.” He’d made it specifically to have something to talk about. “It’s downstairs, if you want some.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” he says, eyes never leaving the glass. Will can see his reflection, pale and—well, he supposes the word would be haunted. “Not anymore.”

Well. That was effective.

He can be civil.

They eat separately: Will usually picks up some sort of fast food garbage on his way home from work (he feels like, somehow, somewhere, Hannibal Lecter feels personally slighted every time he does it), and Chilton eats whatever vegan stuff Will inexpertly chose from the frozen section at Whole Foods. (He feels like Hannibal would do better. He has feelings about Hannibal far too often for his liking.) Except for one night, when Will discovers that Chinese places have tofu options, and they eat together.

They do this in total silence. And yet, even though he isn’t saying a word, Chilton still manages to get on Will’s nerves. It’s the way he uses those crappy little wooden chopsticks to eat his rice—who actually _uses_ those? (It’s so pretentious; they give you forks!) It’s how he sits on the very edge of the chair, as if unwilling to actually sit on it. (Why, is it not good enough for him? Or is he too nervous to sit properly? What could he possibly have to be nervous about?) It’s how—

“… What the hell is your problem, Graham?”

It’s at that moment that Will realizes that he’s glaring daggers into Chilton, hand wrapped around his plastic fork so tight he’s surprised it hasn’t splintered. Chilton has put his food down, staring at Will like a man trying to calm down an angry dog. “You’ve been doing that for at least five minutes,” he says. “It’s concerning.”

“… It’s nothing.”

He tries to go back to eating— but, of course, Chilton just can’t let it lie! “Like hell it’s nothing. You’re looking at me like I killed one of your dogs.” He’s leaning back, legs crossed at the knee—ugh, he can practically feel the cold metal of that damn box, feel handcuffs biting into his wrists. (He’s just been feeling far too much, lately.) “What’s troubling you?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re not my exclusive therapist anymore, Doctor,” he says. God, he sounds bitter. “Or have you forgotten?”

“How can I forget what’s staring me in the face every day.”

There’s silence once more, and, for a blissful moment, Will thinks that maybe, just maybe, Chilton will leave it at that.

And then he says, “I was only trying to help.”

Will gets up and leaves the room.

When he returns, it’s with his gun.


	6. Chapter 6

His back is pressed against the living room wall, the long barrel of a shotgun staring him down, focused square between his eyes. Will Graham has a gun pointed to his head. 

He can hear, just over the harshness of their breathing and the pounding of his heart, light whimpers. The dogs are fading back from the danger, sensing fear and anger, leaving just them. Just Will Graham, Frederick Chilton, and the shotgun between them.

There are many things he wants to say. “What do you think you’re doing?” would be one, but that question hadn’t ended up so great for him the last time, so he avoids it. Part of him wants to break down into a blubbering mess and beg for his life, but, damn it all, he’s been in near-fatal situations before and left with some shred of his meager dignity intact. He shelves hysterical laughter for essentially the same reason.

“Will. Breathe.”

He speaks slowly, gently. He hadn’t been born the director of a hospital; he had trained as a psychologist, and though he’d never been in such a… _situation_ as this, he's had plenty of experience talking down the mentally disturbed. He only hopes it’s enough to save his life.

“If you do this,” he says, “you’ll be giving him what he wants.”

“What do you know about any of this?” His voice is a cruel sneer, and for a moment Chilton feels as if he can see one of many potential futures reflected in the man’s eyes. It terrifies him. “What do you know about _any_ of this?”

“More than I ever wanted to. Honestly, we’ve all been watching this song and dance routine for months. And after learning what Hannibal really is? It all became clear.” Their eye constant is constant, perhaps for the first time since they’ve ever met. “He… _ruins_ people. He ruined Abigail Hobbs. He ruined Miriam Lass. He’s all but ruined me! But, you… He has something special planned for you.”

“His design.” Will’s eyes have softened somewhat, but the gun doesn’t waver. “I’m his design.”

“You don’t have many living allies left, Will.” Chilton puts his hands up in front of him, a further conciliatory gesture. “Blowing my brains out onto your living room wall would just complicate things further.”

Will gives him a long, contemplative look.

And then, he fires.


	7. Chapter 7

His ears are ringing loud enough to hurt, but that’s a positive. Being able to hear means that he is not, at this juncture, tastefully decorating Will Graham’s living room wall with brain tissue. His eyes travel up to the smoking barrel of the shotgun, and follow it to the blackened hole in the wall just mere inches above his head.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, now.

Will Graham, for one, drops the shotgun with a loud clatter, and runs off farther into the house. After a few moments of staring at the wall, seeing a detailed image of blood and gore inscribed on his mind’s eye, he stands, shakily, and follows the wall to wherever the hell Graham had run off to.

He’d run off to, it turned out, the bathroom. He’s dry heaving over the toilet bowl, having already gotten rid of all the strip mall Chinese food he’d consumed just minutes before. Chilton leans against the bathroom door, averting his gaze until the gagging noises give way to choked little sobs, and Will has curled on himself on the bathroom floor. Then, he kneels slowly, considers reaching out to touch his shoulder, as he had before… But, the idea of physical contact terrifies him. Instead, he just waits until Will goes quiet.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is a painful rasp from the vomiting. “God, what… How the hell are we going to work with this?”

“We have to. I have nowhere else to go. It’s not like I can be very choosy about my living arrangements. But…” He sighs. “I’d like to know if I can continue living here without the threat of death hanging over my head. At least, not from you.”

“You can. Not from me.” He swallows hard and lifts his head, though he keeps his eyes to the ground. Perhaps that’s a good sign. “I’m…”

“Forgive me.” The look on Will’s face almost makes him laugh, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “I’m not good at apologies. Apologies require you to think you’re ever in the wrong. But, if you could just… If we could leave our animosity in that hole in the wall, I think we can work from there.”

Will stands, flushes the toilet and starts washing his face with cold water, while Chilton stays kneeling on the floor. The dogs are just outside the doorway, looking in. None of them seem quite sure what’s going to happen next. He can sympathize.

Will is looking at himself hard in the mirror. “I have an appointment with him in a few days,” he says, more to his reflection than Chilton. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. About you.”

“Well, I’d like for you to tell him I’m off hiding in Jamaica or something, but I have a sinking feeling he won’t buy it.” He shrugs. “Don’t bring it up. Don’t give him more information than he already knows. His ignorance is our bliss.”

“’Our.’” Will gives the mirror a wry smile. “Are we partners, now?”

“If not in crime, than in something. It’s very unfortunate that we’re all we have, but it’s also the truth.”

“I feel… I feel like Eve, hiding the apple from the snake.”

“It was the Tree of Knowledge.” He waves the strange metaphor away with a quick hand movement. “And it’s all we have on our side.”


	8. Chapter 8

“It must be nice, not to be alone.”

The pretense Will had entered the office trying to keep up, of “no, I’m not hiding the guy you tried to frame at my house, you’re crazy,” had lasted approximately seven minutes. Now, he’s sitting across the room from Hannibal Lecter, trying his best not to show any emotion. It’s hard for him; he’s nothing _but_ emotion. And Hannibal’s gaze makes him want to start scowling.

“Not really. I had my fill of people in the hospital.” He sees the slightest curve to Hannibal’s lips, and feels bile rising in the back of his throat. “I could use some alone time.”

“With him around, it must feel as if you never even left the hospital.”

“It’s… different.” He wets his lips, eyes flickering to the floor. “It feels different.”

Of course it does. They’re on entirely different terms, in the house: Chilton is the prisoner, dependent on Will’s increasingly low supply of mercy for everything, hiding in closets and jumping at shadows, flinching like a dog whenever he even thinks he hears a car pulling up…

“You have a habit of collecting strays, Will,” he says. “This isn’t any different.”

He can’t help the slight grin as he shakes his head. “Dr. Chilton is a little bit different than a dog,” he says, though he’s already listing the similarities in his head.

“You can’t be that familiar yet, if you still refer to him by his title.”

“It’d be weird to just call him… I don’t know. Fred?” He shrugs and sits up, leaning back in the chair. “We’re not familiar. Not really.”

“Surely there must be some sort of kinship between you. As they say, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

“Are we enemies, Dr. Lecter?”

“Are you friends with Dr. Chilton?”

He pauses. “No,” he says. “I’m not.” He wonders if Hannibal thinks he sounds unsure, too.

Later on, he pauses once more, at the door to Hannibal’s office. He stands there, watching as Hannibal goes to his desk and starts arranging files. He knows it’s just an act, and that he’s waiting for him to say something.

He keeps him waiting.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” he asks. “About him?”

Hannibal turns his head and looks at him. His head cocks to the side slightly. “No,” he says, finally. “I’m not.”

“Why?”

Another barely perceptible smile. “I’m curious as to what will happen,” he says. “I want to see it for myself.”


	9. Chapter 9

Will arrives home to find Chilton drinking. He’s somehow found his way into a 12-pack of some shitty domestic (he hadn’t even bought it himself; he’s almost certain it was a gift from Alana, so very long ago) and has made a pretty decent job of downing it. The few empty cans are stacked on a side table.

“Will. Join me.” He tosses him a can—the throw is off, but Will manages to catch it. “You look like you need it.”

“Are you really that bored?” Still, he cracks open the can and sits down across from him. The dogs swarm him as he sits down; as per usual, Buster has squeezed his way next to Chilton on the armchair.

“It was either this or crossword puzzles. Or killing myself with anxiety, wondering what the hell you’re talking about with Lecter.”

He can’t hide the smile, and is surprised that he doesn’t really want to. “Worried about me, Doctor?”

“Worried about _you_? Worried about _me_ , is more like it. Nothing better than knowing the two men with the power to completely destroy everything are busy circling each other like damn cats, throwing metaphors…” He catches himself and groans, drinking again. “I’m starting to speak like the two of you. It’s disturbing.”

“You’ll get used to it.” The beer tastes terrible. He doesn’t know why he’s drinking it. To have something to do, he supposes. At least the growing fuzziness of his head is nice; he’s tired of thinking. “It’s… strange, talking to him. Now that I know. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it sooner.”

“Hindsight _is_ 20/20… But, yes. I really can’t imagine. It seems so damn obvious, now.”

“The cannibalism jokes were probably a sign. Normal people don’t do that when they’re eating.”

“He has a painting of a woman being raped by a swan in his dining room. He has _Leda and the Swan_ hanging above his goddamn dinner table.” He rubs his eyes, leaning back on the couch. “Of course he’s fucked in the head.”

Will wets his dry lips with his tongue. “He knows you’re here.”

Chilton freezes, almost unperceivably. Then, he sits up once again and opens another can of beer. “Of course he does. He knows everything,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “The only thing I care about is what he’s going to do with that knowledge.”

“Nothing, he said. He wants to watch what happens.”

“I wonder what that means.” His eye lingers on the wall. “Did you tell him about your little remodeling job?”

He stiffens. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“It’s hard not to talk about it when it’s staring us in the goddamn face every day.” He drinks deeply, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Cover it up, at least.”

“With what? _Leda and the Swan_?”

That makes him smile, almost. “How gauche,” he says. “No, it wouldn’t fit with the décor. It would have to be something with dogs, or fish.”

“A Big Mouth Billy Bass.”

That actually makes him laugh. It’s short, caught quickly, but it was there. “God, you’re funny. You’re actually pretty funny.” Another can emptied, joining the others on the table. “Nobody ever says how funny you are.”

“That’s probably because I’m not. At least, not funny in a way most people appreciate.”

“I’ve always liked to think I don’t belong in the ‘most people’ category.” He looks over at Will with a strange sort of expression on his face. “You’re actually nice to talk to, when you’re not in the mind of a murderer.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes. I don’t think that makes it any less true.” He’s quiet for a short time. “Are we friends?”

“I don’t know. Do you think we are?”

“No. But, it’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

“It’s not mine, either.”

“Well, you don’t seem to hate me anymore. It looks like the poor wall got that out of your system,” he says. “I think that’s as close to friendship as either of us will ever get.”

“All of my friends end up dead,” he says absently. “Or Hannibal.”

Chilton pauses, frowns, and shrugs his shoulders. “Let’s hope that I’m the exception.”


	10. Chapter 10

His house is empty when he gets home, and every bad ending runs through his head at once.

 _Hannibal_. He'd come over while Will was at work, bribed the dogs, overpowered Chilton—it’d be so easy—took him back and—God. His body would be strung up somewhere near his hospital and Hannibal’s dinner menu would include kidney. Singular.

 _Jack_. It had been a good enough cover story at the time. They’d barely even discussed him after the first few weeks—but he was the Guru, after all. Will had slipped up, somehow, somewhere, and now Chilton was on his way to Quantico to be interrogated as the Ripper, and Will was going to go down as his accomplice, and Hannibal—always back to him, always—would just walk free…

“Is something wrong?”

His head snaps around like he’s been punched, and there’s Frederick _fucking_ Chilton, standing in the doorway like absolutely nothing in the world is wrong, wearing—yes, that was definitely his own coat, since Chilton hadn’t brought much of anything with him—and, for some goddamn reason, carrying a stupidly large tree branch. Buster is at his side, tracking mud onto the carpet. He doesn’t care about that right now.

“Where were you.” He feels like a beleaguered wife, confronting a cheating husband.

At first, Chilton looks confused by the question. “Out?”

Chilton looks—God, afraid, like he thinks he’s going to shoot at him again. _Calm down, Graham_. Slowly. Calmly. Less homicidal rage-y.

“Since when do you go out?”

Not exactly an improvement, but, at the very least Chilton looks more appropriately annoyed than scared. “Since it’s a beautiful spring day and I haven’t left this house in literal weeks,” he says flatly. “I needed air. Besides, it’s not like I went alone.”

“You brought the one dog who would be useless if you were attacked—Don’t get mad.” That, he says to Buster, who’s puffed himself up slightly, as if he could understand him and felt just as annoyed as his new best friend. “I’m just saying…”

“That you thought I’d get eaten by a bear.”

“I was worried you’d been eaten by _worse_!”

It hangs there between them. Will sighs and goes to sit on his bed, head in his hands. The dogs follow. Chilton stands there, leaning on the branch.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he says, so softly Will barely even hears him.

“… Apology accepted.” Will watches as Chilton drops the branch and slowly climbs up the stairs. The tension stays.

After feeding the dogs, Will sits down in his chair with the branch and pulls out a small carving knife. It’s not terribly fancy, but the wooden staff he leaves at the bedroom door is certainly nicer than lugging around an entire tree branch. And, maybe, Chilton won’t have to limp around the house anymore.

He doesn’t know why he worries so much.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s almost becoming routine: a car will pull up in the driveway, Will and Chilton will share a moment of mutual panic, and Chilton finds himself standing in the hall closet, waiting patiently for it all to end so he can go back to reading the newspaper.

For once, it’s not someone who’s trying to kill them: it’s a woman, Margot Verger—the meatpacking Vergers? He supposes. They’re drinking whiskey and talking—something about Hannibal (of course), killing her brother, blah blah blah, lesbian, blah blah blah—

“Also, why do you have someone in your closet?”

His blood freezes in his veins.

It’s silent, outside. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Will sounds like he’s dying inside. “I don’t have anything in my closet.”

“I saw you put him in there, through the window.”

A pause. “I’m going to ask you to pretend you didn’t.”

Apparently, she doesn’t listen to him, as he hears the clicking of her shoes as she walks over to the closet. He tries to look calm and collected when she opens the door, but he thinks he’s only managed to look nauseous.

She gives him a wry grin. “It’s no fun in there,” she says. “I should know.”

So, he comes out to join them in the living room, and Margot pours him a glass of whiskey. “I’ve seen your face on TV before,” she says. “Chesapeake Ripper, huh?”

He rolls his eyes and drinks deeply. “You can’t believe everything you see on TV.”

“I thought so. I didn’t think you looked like a killer.” She smiles into her cup. “I grew up around enough to know.”

A short silence. “This has something to do with Hannibal Lecter, doesn’t it,” she says softly. It’s not a question, but a statement.

“Doesn’t everything have to do with Hannibal _fucking_ Lecter?” They both stare at him, seemingly surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “This is the ‘Lecter Ruined Our Lives’ club. I suppose you’ll be eligible for membership soon enough.”

“I don’t know. I have my own demon to face, and it’s not him.” She looks at Will, an odd glint in her eye. “Does he know you’re harboring a fugitive?”

Will scoffs. “Doesn’t he know everything?”

“Seems that way, sometimes.” She looks back and forth between them, same odd glint. “It’s good to have a partner, when you’re facing these kinds of odds. We all should be so lucky.”

“Please. Luck has nothing to do with any of this.” Chilton stares at the bottom of his empty glass. “If any of us were lucky, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”

“Fortune favors the bold.” She holds up her empty glass. “To boldness, and our own fortunes.”

The glasses clink.

They finish off the bottle of whiskey as they talk into the night, and Chilton falls asleep in the chair, surrounded by dogs. “I don’t have the heart to wake him,” Margot whispers after she accepts Will’s offer to walk her to her car.

It’s raining slightly, but neither of them cares. “He’s cute,” she says, “for a man.”

He blinks. “Huh?” he says. “I guess. If you think so.”

When she opens her car door, she gives him a long, hard look. “… Take care of yourself, Graham,” she says. “Both of you.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Same to you,” he says as she drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have like a vague timeline idea it'll be like the show but better  
> more macking on dudes


	12. Chapter 12

He hasn’t come down in two days.

It had started as a bit of tiredness, which hadn’t really concerned him too much; after all, Chilton usually spent most of his day sleeping, since he really did have much else to do. But when napping turned into sleeping and hours turned into days, he started to get a bit concerned.

When he goes up to check on him, he finds his concerns are warranted.

Chilton is running a high fever, bed sheets soaked with sweat, eyes closed but darting around frantically under his eyelids. Will is strangely reminded of himself just a few months ago, and hopes that whatever it is that’s making him sick, it isn’t encephalitis. (It’s a ridiculous thought, he thinks, but these are ridiculous times.)

“Doctor—“ Ugh, he feels weird calling him such a formal name, but he’ll feel even weirder using his given name. Oh well, he’ll figure it out later. “Frederick. Can you hear me? I need you to pay attention right now.”

His eyes open slightly, lidded and glossy, and that’s the closest to “attention” that Will is going to get for now. “Okay, good. Are you in pain?” A slow nod. “Where?”

Chilton’s hand moved shakily towards his midsection, hovering about where Gideon had left his scars.

“… Alright.” He tries to hide the growing panic in his voice. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He starts pacing once he leaves the living room. It could be anything. It could be some trivial illness; it could be him dying. It could be cured with aspirin and bed rest; it could require surgery. He doesn’t know. He’s not a doctor.

For a second, he considers calling Jack. Just giving it all up now. At least in prison, there’s doctors.

And then, he remembers something. Or rather, someone.

Someone who owes him a favor.

 

Dr. Sarah Taylor is shutting down for the night when her cell phone rings. It’s a number only for emergencies, and her heart drops when she hears the voice on the other end.

“Dr. Taylor, it’s Will Graham. There’s been… Well. Hard to explain. Driving over. Please stay open.”

She’s concerned. Having as many dogs as Will Graham has means he’s knocking at her door much more often than anyone else in Wolf Trap. Hell, he’s practically putting her kids through college. So, she does wait.

And when he comes into her office, dog-less and half-carrying what looks like a very sick man, she wants to kill him.

“Mr. Graham,” she says tersely, the kind of tone she uses to admonish her son when he stays out after midnight, “I’m flattered that you think so highly of my abilities, but I’m a vetinarian. I don’t know what you want me to do here.”

“Please, Dr. Taylor.” He looks so tired, so worried, that she almost feels badly about speaking to him that way. Almost. “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t take him to the hospital. We’ll get arrested. Please, I don’t know what else to do.”

She gives the unconscious man a long look, slowly recognizing him… And yet, she feels no fear. Maybe because she knows that, Chesapeake Ripper or not, he looks like a strong wind would kill him.

“And how do you know I wouldn’t just turn you in?” she asks. “The reward money isn’t something to sneeze at.”

“Because you’ve already saved so many of my strays for me,” he says, voice soft, “what’s one more?”

She considers it for a second, then breaks. “Fine. Bring him into my office, put him on the chair… Stay out here. If anyone comes in, send them away. I’m not taking anymore patients tonight.”

As she closes the office door, she almost thinks Will is about to cry.

 

It’s not a very long wait, hardly an hour, before Dr. Taylor drags Chilton back outside. “You should be damn grateful I have basic anatomy skills and WebMD,” she says, handing him over. “I’m at least 90% sure it’s just a UTI. Here,” she takes a sheet of paper off the table and writes down something before handing it to Will, “take this, and go to the pharmacy on it. He’ll give you antibiotics. He owes me a favor.”

Suddenly, she moves close to Will’s face, nose almost touching his nose. “And if you ever do this to me again, I’m calling the cops. No exceptions.”

He mumbles out an apology—God, she’s like every elementary school teacher he’s ever had rolled into one—and, lifting Chilton up (it’s almost worryingly easy to do so), brings him back out to the car.

He gives Chilton a hoodie to cover his face as he visits the pharmacy (the man inside seems almost as afraid of Dr. Taylor as he was), and he stays that way, slumped against the door of the car with his face hidden in the hood, the entire way home. Home. He thinks he’s asleep, and he might just have been, but he hears him stirring as he pulls into the driveway.

“Hey, wake up.” He jostles his shoulder a bit, grinning slightly when Chilton groans and pushes him away, like a tired kid. “Do you think you can walk into the house yourself?”

He’s quiet for a while, and for a second Will thinks he’s gone back to sleep. Then, his hand raises slightly, fingers crooking towards him. He rasps something from under the hood.

“What? I can’t hear you.” He flips the hoodie up, sees Chilton’s flushed face, half-closed eyes, hair mussed from sweating. “I said, do you think—“

He kisses him.

At least, he tries to. It’s a good try, really, except their lips don’t exactly connect fully, and it’s more like Chilton’s slipped and fallen onto Will’s face than anything else. For a second, he thinks it’s just that. That he’s just fallen.

But, then he stays there. And moves his lips. Moves them until he’s kissing him fully.

And then he falls asleep again.

Will’s left to carry him (too easy, scarily easy) into the house and wonder what the hell just happened.


	13. Chapter 13

“You’re looking better.”

Chilton pauses on the stairway, looking down at Will, who is sitting in a chair and relaxing with the dogs. “I didn’t know you’d still be here,” he says. “You usually work so late.”

Will shrugs. “It’s my day off.” He gestures for him to sit across from him, and he does so. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I’m not pissing blood anymore, so that’s definitely an improvement.” He pauses, hands clasped together. “I’m sorry for whatever problems my ill health caused.”

“Did you ever apologize much, before you came here?”

“No, not at all. But, I was never sorry for anything, before.” He sighs. “I hope I didn’t embarrass myself utterly.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not a thing. I was completely out of it.” Will gets a strange expression on his face, like he’s bitten into a lemon. “Are you… Did I do something?”

“No, no. You didn’t do anything.”

“Whatever it was, I… wasn’t myself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you weren’t. It’s fine.”

It’s an awkward silence that follows that, but Chilton isn’t sure why. He doesn’t get to think it over much, as the silence is broken by the sound of a car coming up the driveway, and they’re back to the old routine.

He’s in the closet when he hears the door open, Will sigh, and call out, “You can come out. It’s just Margot.”

They sit in the dining room, drinking whiskey from the bottle Margot had brought with her. She’s silent for a good long while, looking back and forth between them, a peculiar expression on her face.

“I didn’t know he’d still be here,” she says.

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” he says with a humorless grin. “Not as long as Lecter’s still walking the streets.”

“This…” She looks down at her hands, tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. “This complicates things.”

“Complicates what?” Will asks. He laughs a little, but it’s strained. “Drinking?”

Margot takes a long gulp of whiskey and an even longer breath. “I… need to have sex with Will,” she says. “Tonight.”

Even the dogs are quiet.

Chilton speaks first. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, though I’m probably not,” he says, “but I’m almost certainly sure that you’re not…”

“I don’t have the right parts,” Will says flatly.

“Not for what I’m usually interested in, but… This is a very special situation. With very special needs. And you have exactly the right parts for it.”

Will, is apparently, stunned into silence, so Chilton takes up the conversation for him. “We’re not _savages_ , Margot,” he says. “Did sperm banks just suddenly disappear from society while I was gone?”

“I’m not in control of my own finances. And this needs to be a surprise to the person who is,” she says. “I need someone who won’t go running off to him, and since I don’t know that many men in that category… Well. Here we are.”

“This is a terrible idea. Will Graham shouldn’t breed.” He pauses, recognizes what he’s just said, and grins sheepishly at the man. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken. I’m kind of in agreement here.” He reaches across and takes Margot’s hand in his, a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry, Margot, but I’m not in any position to help you with this, mentally or physically.”

Her face is impassive, but her eyes are bright with panic and something else. “If not tonight, then never,” she says. “I only have this one shot to free myself… I need _someone_ …”

It’s quiet. And then, slowly, their heads turn towards Chilton.

“… No. Absolutely not. This is not happening. I am putting my foot down. No.”

They continue staring.

“… Alright, _fine_.” He snatches the whiskey bottle away from them and fills his glass to the brim. “What’s one more absurdity in the farce that is my life?”

 

So, there he is, sitting on the floor of Will Graham’s bathroom, pants around his ankles and a washed-out whiskey bottle in his hand…

“How’s it going in there?”

… And a _far too amused Margot fucking Verger_ sitting outside the damn door, listening intently.

“Have you never heard of performance anxiety?” he hisses through the crack in the door. “I don’t know how to expect me to do this if you keep—bothering me!”

“Do you want me to call Will in?”

He sighs and leans against the door. “I don’t see how that would help, either.”

“If you say so.” He can hear her laughter—but it’s tinged with nerves, he can tell. She’s just as worried about this as he is. “Alright. I’ll be quiet.”

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the, er, task at hand… “What are you going to name it?” He doesn’t know why he cares. “Whatever it is?”

“Him. It has to be a boy.” She makes a quiet, contemplative noise. “I haven’t thought about it. What’s your name?”

“I’m about to become your sperm donor, and you don’t even know my name.”

“Well, it wasn’t that important…”

“That makes me feel so much better about this.” He’s close to giving up. It’s going to be nigh impossible to maintain _anything_ if she doesn’t leave. Might as well humor her. “It’s Frederick.”

“Really?”

“Your name is Margot. Your brother’s name is Mason. And you’re going to draw the line at Frederick?”

“We’re a two-syllable family, us Vergers… Ricky?” she asks, though it’s more to herself.

He laughs softly. “That’s what my mother used to call me,” he says.

“Ricky it is, then. It comes highly recommended.” He hears her stand and cross the room, pausing at what he assumes is the door. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

He thinks she’s left for a moment. Then, she says, “If you need help still, I can slip you something from Will’s hamper.”

“ _Margot_!” He hears her laugh as she leaves. That’s why he’s blushing.

Yes. That’s why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no furry guy i don't like him and i couldn't make it work. i'll make something else work. trust me.
> 
> it should've happened this way.


	14. Chapter 14

There’s something wrong. He can tell that something’s wrong. He’s been around Will Graham for long enough—months, it must be, though time doesn’t seem to pass normally here—to know when the man’s closed himself off inside, when he’s shut down, and while those on the outside might be able to tolerate his snits, Chilton is not in any position to lose his one form of daily human contact. Chilton is _not_ going back to talking to the damn dog.

“What did I _do_?”

He confronts him in the morning when he’s getting ready to leave for work, silently tying up his boots as he sits on the bed. Will barely gives him a glance. “Nothing,” he says. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about! You’ve been acting strangely ever since I got better. Just what did I do when I was out of it that’s pissed you off so much?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you didn’t before you start to believe me?”

“When you start actually telling me the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “God, it’s like we’re back in the damn hospital, and you’re running me around in circles again! 

Will stands and crosses to the door. His hand is on the doorknob when Chilton says, “If what I did hurt you, I want to know.”

Will’s gaze is withering, and he steels himself against it. “I think I deserve to know that much,” he says. “It’s hard to move on from things you can’t remember.”

At that, Will grins and shakes his head, like he can’t believe what’s happening. “Really, Frederick? Do you really want to know what you did?” he asks. “Because trust me, it’s not a really easy thing to move past. I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying so damn hard.”

“Tell me.” He swallows. “Please.”

Will crosses again, puts his hand behind Chilton’s neck, and kisses him.

He freezes like a caught rabbit, standing there dumbly as Will’s lips press hard against his own. He’s uncertain, lost, not sure what to do, his brain stopped short and unable to function.

So, his body steps in. His hands, formerly thrown up in a protective gesture (he was so sure Will was going to hit him, so sure), find purchase on Will’s shoulders, shaking fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. His lips press back, parting when they feel the tip of Will’s tongue run against them, and he can’t help the broken little moan that escapes him when their bodies press together. It’s been so _long_ —

And, just like that, Will pushes him away. Chilton falls over himself and lands hard on Will’s bed. His body trembles and he can’t seem to keep his breath, and looking over at Will, he’s not alone in that feeling. But, Will turns and leaves the house, and the roar of the engine means he’s left for possibly a long while.

For a moment, Chilton stays on the bed, but he soon leaves for his own room. It smells too much like him.


	15. Chapter 15

When Will comes back later on in the afternoon, he’s not alone.

He’s half-carrying, half-dragging a person— _bright red hair, oh God, that’s Freddie Lounds, of all people_ —who’s fighting him every step of the way. Chilton jumps up to get the door for him, watches as he tries to wrestle her to the ground, shushing her like a startled horse. Whatever issues they were having before Will left could wait. This is much more serious.

A hand had been clamped over Freddie’s mouth to stifle her screams, but something she does makes Will cry out and pull his hand back— _she fucking bit him_ —and she’s making a run for the door, all wild animal instinct and fear. Chilton panics and places himself between her and the door, which is a mistake, as she barrels through him like a high school linebacker, as if he weren’t even there, and they fall together over the side of the front porch and into the spring mud.

It doesn’t stop her: she pushes herself off him—pressing down hard on his midsection, and he’s not entirely sure it was coincidental— and sprints in the direction of Will’s car. She’s inside of it and pulling the door shut when she realizes she doesn’t have car keys with her and just stops, hands holding the steering wheel tight as if she expects it to start up from her sheer force of will.

Chilton stares up at the darkening sky until Will’s face, tired and bruised on the cheekbone, appears above him. “You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand.

“I’ll live.” He takes the hand and stands, jerking his head towards the car and Freddie. “Will she?”

“Hopefully. If she can calm down for a second.”

“In her defense, being dragged into a strange man’s house in the middle of nowhere would be hard to accept for anyone.”

“She _bit_ me.”

“She literally tackled me into the ground. I may be bleeding internally.” He sees Will moving forward and puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Maybe… Maybe I should talk to her first. Since I’m not the one who tried to abduct her.”

Will throws his hands in the air. “Be my guest,” he says. “I need to find hydrogen peroxide, anyway.”

When Will goes inside, Chilton walks to the car. Freddie is still gripping the wheel like it’s her only connection to reality, and she flinches when Chilton knocks on the window. “I’m not listening, Will!” she says, eyes staring straight forward.

“Well, I’m not Will,” he says, “so maybe you’ll listen to me.”

Her head slowly turns toward him, fear visibly lessening the longer she looks at him. “Oh my God,” she says. “You’ve been hiding here the whole time. I never would’ve guessed.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very exciting. Now, would you mind coming inside and talking like civilized human beings? I’m sure Will has some reasonable explanation and will be glad to let us in on it once he’s finished licking his wounds.”

As they walk, Chilton asks, “Did you play football in college?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Roller derby.”

 

Freddie Lounds sits cross-legged on the living room floor, holding court over Will’s dogs, who all, instantly and unanimously, fell in love with her. (Chilton has even lost Buster to her, which hurts more than he thought it would.) All her fear is gone, replaced with a cat-with-cream smirk, which makes Chilton feel vastly uncomfortable.

“You just have to let me write a series about this, after Lecter’s arrested,” she says, voice barely containing her glee at the thought. “’My Life in Will Graham’s Basement: The Story of Frederick Chilton, The Ripper’s Patsy.’”

“I have a bedroom,” he says, though he feels like he’s complaining about the lesser of evils there.

“As long as you keep it until after, Freddie,” Will says, a strained smile on his face, “you can write whatever you want about us.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, Graham. You’re going to wish he’d killed me.” She pauses, smile gone. “… He was really going to kill me, wasn’t he.”

“As far as I know, he’s still sitting in your bedroom, wearing his… his—“

“Murder suit,” Chilton adds helpfully.

“Yeah, that.”

“I suppose I should thank you for saving my life,” she says, “but it’s really all your fault in the first place, so I’m not going to.”

Chilton rolls his eyes. “Is she going to be staying here long?”

“No. I’ve already contacted some of my fellow bloggers—they’re willing to shelter me until this thing blows over.” She gives Chilton a sickly sweet smile. “Unlike you, I have friends who care about me.”

“I have friends,” he says. “Will’s my friend. Aren’t you, Will?”

Will is staring out the window, lost in thought.

“ _Will_.”

“Huh?” He stares at them. “What?”

“Are you two friends?” Freddie asks.

“Oh. Yeah, sure. We’re friends.”

Chilton mocks her saccharine expression. She sticks her tongue out at him. Will sighs.

“But,” Freddie says, as if it’s an afterthought, “I will have to stay here for a few days, until my friends can come get me. I’m going to assume you don’t have a second bedroom…”

“Yeah, just… Whatever.”

Her point slowly dawns on Chilton, but Will’s out the door before he thinks to complain. “Will!” he shouts after him. “I’m not giving her my bed! I was here first!”

“God, what a gentleman,” she says, speaking more to the dogs than to Chilton. “Going to make a lady sleep on the floor. No wonder he doesn’t have any friends.”

“Listen here, you little _harpy_ \--”

 

Will stares up at the night sky, cell phone in his hand. It takes a lot for him to dial the number.

“Yes… Yes, I’ll wait… Dr. Taylor? No, it’s not… Yes, I know… And you can if you want to! It’s just, I’m really… It’s FBI business, I swear… God, thank you, you’re a literal lifesaver… I just need to know if you know any morticians that owe you a _huge_ favor…”


	16. Chapter 16

The floor is hard and rough in places, and Chilton only has a flimsy blanket between him and it. It’s hardly been half an hour, and he’s already feeling his back ache, his legs cramp up.

Freddie is lying on the bed— _his_ bed, damn it—and looking down at him, grinning. Because, apparently, it wasn’t enough just to kick him out of his bed. Oh, no, she had to watch him _suffer_.

“You’re making a crippled man sleep on the floor,” he grumbles, flipping over onto his back as if it’ll help him any. “I hope you realize how exquisitely evil that is.”

“We’re all psychopaths here, remember?” She’s texting on her cell phone—has been for hours, chatting with whatever Internet strangers were going to save him from her. “You’ll be fine. It’s just for a few days.”

“Now, why don’t I believe you… Oh, right, because you’re a _duplicitous bitch_. Sorry, I almost forgot.”

She rolls her eyes. “If you’re going to be such a brat about it, go take Will’s bed. I’m sure he won’t mind.” His silence gets her interest. “I’m sure it’s not the first time.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Please, I know what men do in desperate situations. It’s not really Stockholm Syndrome… More prison gay, right?”

“I swear to God, I will hurt you.”

“Try it, Shorty.” She smirks at him. “Graham may have taken my mace, but I can still do some damage.”

She’s quiet for a while. “Have you guys kissed?” she asks.

“You’re going to put this in your article, aren’t you.”

“I think it’s kind of sweet. Two people broken by the hands of the Ripper finding solace in each other.”

He considers not talking to her. He considers it, but he’s a weak man, and he needs to prepare himself for Will not talking to him for quite a long time. “We did,” he says softly.

“Did what?”

“Kissed. A little. It wasn’t that dramatic.”

She cocks her head to the side, thinking. Then, she puts her phone away, focusing all of her attention on him. “Lecter will kill you if she finds out,” she says, sounding far too pleased with the thought.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“Will Graham is a hot commodity. Everyone’s after him.” She gives him a wink. “But, you’re the one that got him.”

He laughs before he can stop himself. It sounds bitter, even to his own ears. “I don’t ‘got’ anything,” he says. “We’re hardly even friends. Every time something like this happens, he’ll go without speaking to me for days.”

“Typical man! Frederick—Can I call you Frederick?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Freddy?”

“God, no.”

“What, then?”

“Dr. Chilton will suffice.”

“You’re not a doctor anymore,” she says. “They rescinded your license when you became a ‘fugitive from justice.’”

He stares at her for a long, long time. It may be a trick of the light, but he’s almost certain her expression softens.

“Dr. Chilton, Will Graham is a very… special kind of person,” she says. “He’s spent so much time in other people’s minds that he can’t seem to make up his own anymore. He’s broken—but, you know, so are you. These things work themselves out in the end.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“A little. This isn’t my forte. It’s usually the opposite.”

Silence. “In light of your condition,” she says, “I’m willing to share this bed with you.”

He almost smiles. “You’re kidding.”

They build a small wall of pillows down the middle of the bed, with Frederick on one side and Fredricka on the other side. “If I wake up to you spooning me,” she says, “I’m turning you over to Jack Crawford.”

“I’ll do my best to restrain the urge.” He puts his head on the pillow and closes his eyes with a contented sigh, finally glad to be going to sleep after such a stressful day. “Good night, Freddie.”

“Good night, Freddy.”

Silence.

“You’re going to put all of that in your article, aren’t you.”

“Yep.”

“Any chance you can make me sound less pathetic?”

“No promises.”


	17. Chapter 17

They come down the stairs together, and Will has a brief moment of wondering if he’s made two terrible decisions today, not just one.

He’s still in bed, staring up at the dust particles dancing through the morning sun. He hasn’t slept. He spent half the night cutting human flesh from what the mortician (a jolly old man who apparently taught one of Dr. Taylor’s children how to play the piano) had called a “disposable” Jane Doe. No matter how many dead bodies he’s seen, Will can never think of them that way. She’d been about Freddie’s age, slim, pale-skinned. Beautiful. And now he has a piece of her leg in his fridge.

He wants to throw up.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Freddie says cheerfully, sitting at the foot of Will’s bed without a care in the world, petting the dogs that had gravitated around her.

Chilton sits in his usual chair (“usual,” god, they have reached that point…) and peers at him curiously, but, surprisingly, doesn’t say anything. He wonders what they were talking about upstairs. If they were gossiping about him like teenage girls at a sleepover.

He’s being paranoid. He’s tired. He still wants to throw up.

“I’m going to have to do terrible things if I want to catch Hannibal,” he says, voice low. “Last night, I just did one more. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I actually carry chamomile tea in my purse, right next to the mace—What? You never know when you’ll need to conduct a calming interview! It’s a journalist’s best friend.” She gives Chilton a wide smile. “Freddy, go make us some tea.”

He looks at her like she’s deeply wounded him. “What, am I your slave now?”

“Freddy.” Her smile gets hard at the edges, but he can’t imagine why. “Go. Make. Some. Tea.”

At that, he seems to understand whatever point she’s trying to make and leaves the room.

“I didn’t know you two were on such intimate terms,” he says dryly.

“All great friendships are formed in times of strife.” She glances at him from out of the corner of her eye. “You two seem to be pretty chummy, after all.”

He shrugs. “I guess so,” he says. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Liar.”

He gives her a hard look and tries to change the subject. “With this, I’m going to convince Hannibal—and everyone else—that you’re dead,” he says. “All you need to do after that is lay low until he’s arrested.”

“What, I’m not invited to live in the bachelor pad?”

“You have somewhere to go. _He_ doesn’t.”

“Poor little lamb. You really do have a thing for strays, don’t you?” She smirks and scratches Winston behind the ear. He melts into her touch. _Traitor_. “He’s a little cuter than your normal finds.”

“Do you have a point with this or something?”

She pauses. “… So far, it seems like Hannibal Lecter’s focused himself entirely on getting rid of your support, your allies,” she says. “Abigail Hobbs. That FBI girl. Hell, even Alana is sleeping with the enemy. You’re lost on the sea without mooring.”

“I still don’t see your point…”

To his surprise, Freddie grabs his chin and pulls him to face her. Her expression is as serious as he’s ever seen it. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You can’t keep going into the darkness without someone to pull you out,” she says. “You need him as much as he needs you. Keep him. Or you’ll let _him_ eat you whole.”

They stay like that for a few seconds, only to be interrupted by the loud whistle of a teakettle. She lets him go and sits back. “You both better be alive when this thing ends,” she says. “I’m only half-done with my article.”

Even as he’s drinking the tea, Will has absolutely no idea what’s going on.


	18. Chapter 18

When Margot shows up at their door weeks later, they’re happy to see her.

That is, until they see her.

She’s barely kept herself together, trembling and close to tears as she stood on the porch, arms wrapped over her stomach. Her pants were stained dark with blood, but though they looked her over in their panic they couldn’t see any visible injuries.

Margot manages to stutter out her brother’s name before she collapses, weeping, into Will’s arms.

Chilton takes Margot in his arms, holding her to his chest as her wailing grows louder and louder. He strokes her hair gently, crooning a soft Spanish lullaby under his breath. Will slumps onto his chair, head in his hands. He doesn’t look up until the crying has abated, and Chilton is laying a half-unconscious Margot gently down on Will’s bed. He’s pale when he looks at him. Will can’t imagine that he looks any better.

“Just when you think you’ve seen all the evil this world can give,” he says, brushing her hair from her face, “it goes and shows you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Will stands, hands curled into fists at his sides. “Frederick,” he says, the anger so evident in his voice that it makes Chilton flinch (it’s behind a painting of a dog but the bullet-shaped hole is still there), “I’m going out. Take care of her.”

“Where are you going?” The desperate break in his voice gives Will pause ( _Tell me. Please. What did I_ do?), and he holds onto the doorframe to keep his knees from buckling.

“… I’m going to go make a deal with the Devil.”

 

He finds pain medications in the bathroom and coaxes Margot into taking them, holding the glass of water to her lips and rubbing her throat to help her remember to swallow. He tries his best to convince her to get out of her bloody clothes and bathe on her own, but she’s in and out of consciousness and spending what little time she has in weeping hysterically, and he’s not sure he trusts her to be alone right now.

He approaches it from the most clinical way he can. (But, God, she is beautiful.) The water in the tub turns reddish brown, and he washes her hair himself because he has no idea what else to do. Her crying stops, somewhat, though she still keeps her eyes closed tight, overcome with anguish, like she’s trying to forget the world around her.

He dresses her in Will’s clothes (he won’t mind) and takes her to his bed, makes some of the tea Freddie left behind and leaves the cup on the table beside her. She’s a bundle of blankets when he leaves her to do a quick load of laundry.

He slumps against the machine and runs his hands over his face. God. She hasn’t told them exactly what happened, but Chilton isn’t a stupid man. He can put the pieces together. Such brutality, and from her own _brother_ … He couldn’t imagine being so cruel to a sibling, even though he had none. He just couldn’t fathom it.

A small part of his heart recognizes the bloodstains he’s washing away as _his child_ , and he curls up on himself until the machine stops.

 

She’s awake when he comes back out, sipping the tea and staring forward with a lifeless look in her eyes. He sits next to her. He doesn’t know what to say.  
“I saw him.” Her voice is so quiet, he’s not even sure she’s spoken at first. “I saw him.”

“Saw who, Margot?”

She gives him a shaky smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “Ricky,” she says. “He was beautiful.”

A part of him recognizes that, even if Margot had seen the fetus in an ultrasound, it wouldn’t have been even remotely human-looking at this point, let alone “beautiful.”

Instead, he smiles back at her and says, “Took after his mother, thankfully.”

She puts her head on his shoulder, and he lets her stay there until Will comes back.

 

He does, hours later, looking haunted and yet, victorious. He looks at them. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight,” he says, “but I don’t feel sorry for whatever it will be.”

That seems like the end of it. For now.

Chilton stands to go to bed, but a hand grabs his and pulls him back down. Margot looks embarrassed at first, staring at her hands. “If… If you two… It’s not a…” She swallows thickly. “I just can’t be alone tonight. I can’t.”

They sleep on Will’s bed: Chilton on the left, Will on the right, and Margot between them. And if their hands happen to meet over her covered stomach and grasp each other, well… It’s all for her protection. Really.


	19. Chapter 19

When Will wakes up the following morning, Margot is long gone, and Chilton… Well. It seems like when the person in the middle left, the two outside people filled in the space. They’re spooned up together, Will’s arm wrapped around his middle and his head on his shoulder. He’s frozen. He can’t move. He’s not even entirely sure he wants to.

Chilton stirs in his sleep, eyes barely open as he turns his head to Will. He mumbles something Will doesn’t understand, “ _suavecito_ ,” and kisses him lightly before seemingly returning to sleep.

And then Will pushes Chilton away so hard he falls off the bed.

It’s not a very long fall, but he still cries out when he hits the ground. “What the—What the hell is your problem!” He’s rubbing his fingers—he must have landed on his hand—and looking at Will with such a horribly hurt expression that he feels like the world’s biggest jackass for it. “I thought we were past the point of assault already!”

He doesn’t know what to say. That seems to make Chilton even angrier. “Really? Nothing? You’re going to do it again, shut up for days or weeks or months and pretend like nothing happened? Pretend I’m not even here until some horrible event pushes us back together again?” He laughs bitterly and tightens his hands in his hair. “I washed a fetus out of a girl’s pants yesterday. And you sicced a cannibal on the man responsible for it. And then you throw me off the fucking bed—“

Will leans over the bed, takes Chilton’s hands from his hair and holds them. He looks up at him, stilling.

“Which one hurts?” he asks. Chilton stares at him, uncomprehending. Then, he flexes his right pointer finger. Will brings it up to his lips and presses them gently against it. “There. All better.”

“Will Graham,” he says, slowly, “I will never understand you.”

They kiss, again, and Will pulls Chilton by his shirt until he’s back on the mattress. When they part, Chilton is awkwardly sitting above him, hips pressed together and arms shaking on each side of Will’s head.

“Please, don’t push me away,” he says. “Please. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Will guides Chilton until he’s lying on his stomach (there’s no way Chilton’s injuries will allow him to be physically on top, at least, not yet) and rests his forehead on the back of Chilton’s neck, trying to regain control of his staccato breathing. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” he says.

Chilton (grinning into the pillow, the jerk) reaches back to grab Will’s hand and bring it to his own lips. “Watch and learn, then,” he says before taking Will’s fingers into his mouth.

It’s like the whole world’s fallen away, everything but the feel of his tongue as it traces the whorls and lines of his fingertips, as the edges of his teeth scrape his knuckles, as a thin strand of saliva separates them when Chilton finally pulls his mouth off.

“I hope the rest is self-evident,” he says dryly.

Will’s managed to make himself at least partially useful, shucking his own pants and tank top and getting Chilton at least half-naked. (He’d tried for the shirt, but the look Chilton had given him over his fingers had stopped him dead in his tracks.) His cloth-covered erection is pressed against Chilton’s thigh, and it takes all of his considerable self-control to keep from rutting against him like a horny teenager. He freezes again—God, he can’t do this, what’s he doing, how did this—

“For fuck’s sake, Graham,” says a voice, muffled and annoyed. “ _Please_.”

He presses two fingers into him perhaps too rough and too fast, panicking in his inexperience, but the heady whine he hears tempers his nerves. (A small part of him, the more observant part, recognizes it, sees how he takes pleasure from the pain, and files the information away for future study.) “ _Suavecito_ , Will.” He still doesn’t understand the slurred word, but he gets the gist of the situation. He moves slower from then on, gently opening him up beneath him. Chilton’s all loud groans and moans, and though Will can barely even hear himself think over his own harsh breathing, he hopes he doesn’t wake the dogs.

(The idea that he doesn’t know where they were doesn’t settle in. It’s filed away for future study.)

There’s no real lube readily available—it’s not like Will’s ever expected any, er, _company_ \-- but he spits on his hand, and though Chilton is laughing at him (God, he could come right there, just from that), they’ll both have to make do. He leans down and kisses Chilton just above his collar, drinks in the shiver. “Are you…” He trails off, unable to speak around his heart in his throat, as Chilton has turned his head around to look up at him, and he’s stunned by the realization that, all sweat-slick hair and flushed skin, Frederick Chilton is a _very_ beautiful man.

“How many more times do I have to say it?” he says in a breathy whisper. “ _Please_.”

He presses in the head of his cock slowly, tentatively, but Chilton’s exclamations—“Jesus, fuck, you’re big,” and for some reason, Will’s absolutely sure he means it—build up his confidence and, slowly but surely, Will starts building up a faster rhythm. His head is swimming in chemicals he’d usually know the names of, and he can’t seem to take his eyes off Chilton’s face, pressed hard into his pillow, red contrasting so very nicely with the off-white. Chilton’s eyes are shut tightly as he whimpers with every thrust—at least, until Will leans forward and bites his shoulder blade through the cloth of his t-shirt, hard enough to draw little droplets of blood. Then, his eyes shoot open and a scream rips itself from his throat.

One hand bracing itself on the space next to Chilton’s head, the other hand strayed away, running fingers down Chilton’s spine, pressing fabric onto the sweaty skin until it soaked through. When Will’s fingers found his side, Chilton swore desperately—“Nononono, Will, _please_ ”—until the fingers ghosted over the scar on his belly. Chilton came hard onto Will’s bedspread.

(Filed away for future study.)

With Chilton contracting around him, Will lasts only a few more thrusts before he comes inside him, body trembling violently. It’s all he can do to not collapse on the body beneath him.

It’s only then that he realizes the door’s opening, and there’s the familiar pattering of dogs’ feet across his floor. Will slowly looks up and looks directly into Margot’s eyes.

She looks much better than she did the night before, and is carrying a large brown paper bag. Though her expression is mostly blank, there’s a twinge of a smile at the corner of her lips, and as embarrassed as he is about what put it there, he’s glad it’s there at all. “I bought bagels,” she says. “And took your dogs for a walk.”

“Uh. Thank you, Margot.” He hears Chilton swearing incoherently below him, and isn’t sure weather to hide away forever or laugh hysterically. (Definitely not the latter; Chilton would murder him.) “That’s really nice of you. Um, feeling better?”

“As much as can be expected.” Thankfully, she finally averts her gaze, though it’s now a full-fledged smile on her lips. “I’ll be in the kitchen. You two can just… clean up.”

“Thanks.” He watches her walk away, and then, unfortunately, breaks down into slightly crazy-sounding giggles.

“This is hardly a laughing matter, Graham.” Chilton’s voice is still muffled by the pillow, and it, for some reason, makes him laugh harder. “I mean it! Stop laughing.”

It takes a minute for the laughter to subside. Will gently removes himself and stands, brushing away the curious dogs that surround them. “Need any help?” he asks when Chilton doesn’t even budge.

“I want to die.”

“No, you don’t. There’s too much of that.” He leans down and lifts Chilton by his arms (too easy, far too easy), balancing the shaking man on his feet. “Come on. Let’s go shower.”

Their bagels get cold.


	20. Chapter 20

He falls asleep with Will in his bed that night, but he wakes up in an empty bed. He does not wake up alone.

Hannibal is standing in the middle of the living room. Wearing his murder suit. Watching him sleep.

Chilton swears loudly and falls over himself in his haste to get up, tying himself up in blankets and falling with a hard thud. (He can hear the dogs playing outside.) Hannibal doesn’t move, so he takes the opportunity to shuck the blankets and make a run for it—but, when he does, all Hannibal has to do is stick his foot out, just slightly, and Chilton falls once again, sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

He manages to flip himself over onto his back— _don’t turn your back to him, never turn your back to him_ —and tries to aggressively crab crawl his way out of danger. His head hits the back door, and there’s nowhere else to go. Hannibal walks up to him slowly, taking his time. He has all the time in the world.

“Hello, Frederick,” he says airily, like they’re at a garden party and not a future crime scene. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough.” All he has left is his dignity, the few pathetic scraps that cling to him. “Sorry to disappoint, but, as you can see, Will’s not home.”

“I know.” He has something in his hands— _his old cane_ , Chilton realizes with a slow horror, _it’s his old cane_. Hannibal twirls it absently in his hand. “I’ve made sure of it. I called him, actually. He’s at the crime scene.”

“What crime scene?”

A strange, thin smile—and yet, one of the few true smiles Chilton has ever seen Hannibal give. “The crime scene he asked me for, of course,” he says.

_Margot’s brother_. He doesn’t feel anything for him. Whatever horrors the Ripper inflicted on him, they were deserved. “Did you kill him?”

“I’m sure he wishes I had.” He tosses the cane from hand to hand. Chilton’s eyes follow it. “There are fates worse than death, Frederick. As you’re well aware.”

Hannibal glances casually around the room. “Freddie Lounds was here,” he says.

No use in lying when he already knows the truth. “Yes.”

“Not anymore.”

“No.”

“Did you watch him kill her?”

Will did it. He tricked Hannibal, tricked him into thinking Freddie was dead. He decides to kiss him for it, if he ever sees him again.

“Yes.” He tries his best to look disgusted and haunted by the thought. It’s not a hard expression to fake. “I did.”

Hannibal looks down at him for a long time, like he’s trying to figure out if it’s the truth or not. Chilton shrinks under his gaze. Closes his eyes. Starts to pray.

“I can smell him on you.”

There’s the whistling of air, and the cane connects hard with Chilton’s face, with a hard crack. He falls to the side, but it comes screaming towards the other side. He can taste blood. He can taste blood, and he knows it’s only the beginning.

He opens and eyes and squints at the three swirling, blurry Hannibal Lecters in front of him. “ _Please_ ,” he slurs. He can feel blood run down his chin.

The cane connects with his side, just on the scar tissue, but he’s able to brace for it (somewhat) and doesn’t cry out, even as his teeth slice his lip. It comes down on his shoulder—he hears the crack of bone—and across his chest. Across the arms he holds up to protect himself. The legs curled up beneath him. They come fast and steady, and he can practically feel the blood vessels break under his skin, feel the bruises bloom over his body.

It doesn’t stop.

It goes on forever.

(“Forever,” he’ll later learn, is more like twenty minutes when the factor of overwhelming pain is considered.)

It stops, suddenly, but he still flinches, as if waiting for it all to start again. It doesn’t, but he does feel the end of the cane pressing hard onto his scar. Indignity on top of indignity. For all he’s managed not to scream, he whimpers.

“Goodbye, Frederick.”

He hears the footsteps rather than sees him—his eyes are bruised shut, he learns later on—walk away. He hears the front door open. “Why—“ He heaves painfully, spits a mouthful of blood onto the kitchen floor. “Why didn’t you kill me.”

He hears him smile. “I wanted to see what would happen,” he says. “The results have bored me.”

He leaves. He can hear the dogs barking outside. He can hear himself choking on his own blood. He hears crying. He wonders who it is.

 

Hours later, the door opens.

“Seriously, Chilton? Don’t just let the dogs outside and not watch them. It’s kind of a dick move—Oh my God.”

He hears footsteps, many of them, one heavier than all the others. For one horrible second, he’s convinced it’s Hannibal again, using that awful voice trick of his. But, he feels a warm, rough hand press against his face, and though he cries out from the pain of it, it’s also a cry of relief. It’s Will. Really Will. He should say something. Tell him who’s done this. Ask him something. Ask where he’s been. What happened. Tell him what happened.

Instead, he musters up, “I love you.”

A minute passes. He feels a pair of dry lips press against his forehead—it hurts so bad, but he leans slightly into it—and hears footsteps. “No—“ He tries to get up, but pain knocks him back to the floor again.

“Margot is coming. Don’t worry.” His voice sounds a million miles away. “Don’t worry. I’m finishing this. I’m finishing this now.”

He’s alone again, but not for nearly so long. Then, he feels two soft hands helping him up, feels water wash the tackiness of blood off his face, feels those hands on his throat, so gently, hears a familiar lullaby (off-tune and wholly mispronounced, but it still makes him cry all the harder), feels the welcoming softness of Will’s little bed. He doesn’t hear the door open again before he finally gives himself into painless sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Margot stays for only a few days, until Chilton’s able to see again and do more than half-stumble his way around the house. She leaves, citing “family business,” and he’s left alone with the dogs again.

Will doesn’t come home.

There isn’t any blood left in the kitchen—Margot had taken care of that, bless her—but he still mops the whole floor twice, three times, and cleans the counters until his bones hurt. The dogs act distant, gathering around the door. He joins them, sometimes.

Will still doesn’t come home.

The world outside is a mystery to him—he doesn’t even know the date, just that it’s sometime in the beginning of summer. He wonders if any wars have started since he’s been gone, if any discoveries have been made. The whole world could end, and he’d be none the wiser.

Will isn’t coming home.

He’s half-ready to call 911, just to have someone to talk to, when he hears a car come to a hard stop in front of the house, and watches Margot fall over herself in her haste to get to the door. He opens it and she practically knocks him to the ground as she throws her arms around him. The dogs are going nuts, and he manages to stay on his feet.

“It’s over,” she says into his shoulder. “It’s over. He’s been arrested.”

For half a second, he thinks she’s talking about Will. But, once he’s given time to think, it hits him harder than she had.

“Oh my God.”

“Will’s in the hospital.”

And to think, he was just about to celebrate, too. “Oh.”

The horror on his face is, apparently, evident. She gives him a reassuring smile as she backs away. “He’s fine,” she says. “He’s alive. There was a… Well, I don’t know the whole story. Just that Dr. Lecter tried to cut him open with a linoleum knife.”

“Oh.”

“He’s just woken up. He’s been asking for you.”

“Oh.”

She looks at him worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Just shock. I’ll get over it. Eventually. It’ll pass.” He breathes deep, lets it out slow. “Take me to him.”

All he can think as she drives him to Baltimore is, _Ha. We match, now_.

 

Jack Crawford and the two FBI agents are standing outside the hospital room as they walk up, Chilton leaning on Margot’s arm for support. Jack looks like he’s been through ten rounds with an MMA fighter, and he still manages to look shocked when he sees Chilton. “What the—“

Chilton braces himself, like he’s about to be arrested or shot, but Margot’s voice cuts Jack off. “He’s been asking for him,” she says, sounding every inch a business magnate. “Let us through.”

The three men give each other confused looks, and follow them inside the hospital room.

Will actually looks pretty good, he thinks, for someone who’s just narrowly escaped death, but he admits that he’s a bit biased. He hears Margot trying to explain the entire situation to the FBI, but it just sounds like background noise. All he can hear is the steady beeps of all the machines Will’s hooked up to.

Will gives him a weak smile, eyes cloudy and lost from the pain medication. “Guess what,” he says.

Chilton sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying not to block any of the various tubes and wires. God, there’s a lot of them. “What?”

Slowly, Will’s hand lifts from his side and gestures vaguely at his stomach. “We match,” he says, “now.”

Silence. Then, Chilton laughs lightly, pushes the breathing tube away just slightly, and kisses him.

 

Jack is staring hopelessly past Margot’s head, hardly even listening to her. “This is a little too much for me to take in,” he says. “Too much all at once.”

Brian nudges Jimmy with his elbow. “I win,” he says. “Cough it up.”

“Oh, no, my friend,” he says. “You bet that Will would end up kissing Hannibal Lecter. This is the _exact opposite_ of you winning.”

“You’re the one that bet he was straight.”

“I never said I was the winner, either! I’m not a perfect man. I don’t know everything.” He sighs. “Let’s just give this one to Bev.”

Brian pauses, then nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s give it to her. She would’ve loved this.”

They notice Jack’s withering stare. “… Well, I think we have some, uh, forensics to do, don’t you, Mr. Zeller?”

“Oh, yes, so much forensics, Mr. Price. Far away from here. Far, far away.”

Jack watches them scuttle off, and sighs. Margot Verger is still staring at him, head cocked to the side, a strangely amused smile on her face. “If you don’t mind me asking, Agent Crawford,” she says, “where is Dr. Bloom?”

“I think I do mind you asking, Miss Verger.”

“Frederick wasn’t the only one Will was asking for.”

Jack jerks his head like her words hit him, though she isn’t sure which part hurt the most. “Psych ward,” he says gruffly. “Suicide watch.”

Margot nods slowly, and then looks at Will and Chilton. Will is busy telling a suitably horrified Chilton about his final confrontation with Dr. Lecter. Their fingers are entwined.

“I think you could use a drink, Agent Crawford,” she says. “My treat.”

Jack spends a much longer time than her looking, then sighs. “As long as you’re paying,” he says. “I’m going to need one hell of a tab.”


	22. Chapter 22

MY LIFE IN WILL GRAHAM’S TASTEFUL UPSTAIRS BEDROOM: THE STORY OF FREDERICK CHILTON, THE RIPPER’S PATSY. PART 25  
by Freddie Lounds  
 **a TattleCrime exclusive**

_Well, Tattlers, it’s the day we’ve all been waiting for: the Chesapeake Ripper’s, a.k.a. Hannibal the Cannibal, final day in court! I’ll have a FULL update on his sentencing the moment it happens (since our favorite FBI agent, Jack Crawford, was so kind as to reserve yours truly a prime seat for the affair). Until then, it’s also time for the FINAL part of our series-- the Where Are They Now part of this tragic tale, if you will._

_Throughout the past few weeks, I’ve regaled you with play-by-play updates of the Trial of the Millennium and EXCLUSIVE interviews and stories from the Ripper’s living victims. You’ve all left COUNTLESS comments and sent in ENDLESS emails, asking me what became of our embattled lovers and their allies. Now, it’s time for you all to learn the TRUTH!_

_As you all know, once Will Graham and Frederick Chilton gave their testimony in the Ripper trial, they disappeared entirely from the public eye. Newspapers and tabloids have run themselves ragged trying to figure out where they are—but only I was able to find them for you, dear readers! (Freddy and I share a deep bond, the kind only people who share a name and a heated sexual tension can have, and we’ve kept in touch throughout this ordeal.) Just where are they?_

_Florida._

_As far as I know, they’re in Florida, where Will is busy wrestling gators with his bare hands and Freddy is the exclusive therapist to Mickey Mouse—but I’m pretty sure that’s just some of our friends’ INFAMOUS sarcasm bleeding in. Aren't they just darling?_

_(Don’t ask me for their address: as much as I’d love to give it and let you all go harass them in whatever swamp they’ve holed up in, I know for a fact that Will is teaching Freddy how to shoot, and if he’s as good a shot as he is a surgeon… Well, I don’t want to be responsible for any Tattlers’ deaths. I love you all too much.)_

_I’ve also received a surprising number of comments about Margot and, before anyone else gets a hold of it, I’d like to break the story first: YES, we are expecting! Five months along, and I miss coffee more than you will ever know, Tattlers. Margot is very busy, being left to take care of her family business after the TRAGIC maiming and institutionalization of her beloved brother, the Ripper’s last victim, but she’s still VERY GENEROUSLY willing to answer almost all of your questions!_

_(Also, a personal message from her: No, she’s NOT going to talk any more about walking in on those two lovebirds going at it, stop asking. It’s, in her words, “really fucking creepy.”)_

_(If it’s a girl, Abigail. If it’s a boy, Ricky.)_

_I think we can safely say that it’s been a VERY happy ending for everyone, don’t you think, Tattlers? Well, except for Hannibal the Cannibal, but if our reader polls mean anything, no one really cares what he thinks!_

_Speaking of, time for the sentencing! Freddie Lounds out!_   


**Author's Note:**

> oh my gosh is it really over? i have never had such a popular fic i'm so glad y'all love it as much as i do. this is the end for now. i may write more drabbles set it in the universe, but this is it for now. THANK YOU ALL I AM HONORED TO HAVE Y'ALL AS READERS
> 
> follow me on tumblr i'm lonely


End file.
